


Salve

by softestpunk



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: M/M, PWP, Pre-Canon, baby witchers!, okay they're 25
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-14 18:51:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14775224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestpunk/pseuds/softestpunk
Summary: Eskel comes back from the winter with a new scar, one that clearly bothers him. Geralt helps. A lot.(PWP in which Geralt just wants Eskel to know that he's still perfect).





	Salve

**Author's Note:**

> I am aware of what game-canon says about Eskel's scar and the thing is: it's dumb, so I'm ignoring it.

“That scar bothering you?” Geralt asked, looking up at Eskel across the table. He kept touching his face, where he’d acquired a relatively new, relatively deep scar right down it, from his forehead all the way to his lip.

Winters at Kaer Morhen involved a lot of comparing new scars, usually, but Eskel had seemed… uneasy about this one, ever since he’d walked in.

It hadn’t helped that other, younger witchers had stared. Even Geralt hadn’t quite managed to look away quickly enough, surprised to see the dramatic change on his friend’s face.

“Isn’t it bothering _you_?” Eskel asked, raising an eyebrow. He didn’t take his hand away, half-covering it.

“No,” Geralt said, because it wasn’t. Except for the thought that maybe it was causing Eskel pain, he was already used to it.

They were the last two up, enjoying the heat of the roaring fire in the hearth rather than retreating to a drafty bedroom somewhere.

Eskel’s hand finally dropped away from his cheek. “It healed okay,” he said. “I mean… it doesn’t hurt, not really. I’m mostly used to it until I look in a mirror.”

“I’ve got a salve for healing scars,” Geralt said. “If you want some?”

It wasn’t as though he was planning on using it. He _liked_ his collection of scars.

Eskel sighed heavily. “Sure, why not?”

Geralt got up and wandered over to where he’d dumped his outer layers of armour and medicine pouches earlier, digging through one until he found the small wooden pot he was looking for. He headed back over to Eskel with it, straddling the bench the other man was sitting on to face him.

“Might be a little late to do any good,” Geralt said apologetically as Eskel turned to face him, crossing his legs as he balanced on the bench. “But can’t hurt to try?”

“What’s in it?” Eskel asked, watching Geralt’s fingers as he worked the thick paste between them, softening it enough to apply.

Geralt shrugged. “Beeswax and tallow, mostly, I think,” he said. “A combination of herbs. A healer gave it to me as payment for solving an arachnomorph problem.”

Eskel shuddered. “I hate those things. The way they move? Ugh. Gives me the creeps.”

Geralt chuckled, reaching out to spread the softened paste over Eskel’s new scar. The skin under his fingers felt strangely smooth, raw even, like scars normally did. He could feel that it had been a serious injury when Eskel had acquired it, and had probably put his life in danger.

Long claws. Maybe something as simple as a water hag.

Eskel hadn’t said, so Geralt wouldn’t ask. They’d talk about it if and when he wanted to, but not before.

“No one likes them,” Geralt said. “I don’t mind killing ‘em. They’re not all that dangerous, but people pay better than drowners.”

“You got paid in salve,” Eskel pointed out, turning his face to give Geralt better access to the scarred part.

“Is it helping?” Geralt asked.

Eskel licked his lips. “Kinda, yeah,” he admitted.

“Then it was worth it,” Geralt murmured, gently spreading the last of the salve he’d warmed up where Eskel’s lip was split by the scar. His fingers lingered a heartbeat too long, and he removed them quickly when he realised what he was doing.

They weren’t boys anymore. Eskel wouldn’t…

Wouldn’t _want_ him. Not now, when his options weren’t limited to awkward fumbling with another witcher.

Geralt missed the awkward fumbling. Missed the innocence of it, missed curling up together and keeping each other warm and promising to always be friends, no matter what.

He was too old for that now, at twenty-five, but he still _missed_ it. Leaving after winter made his heart ache every year, because he knew it’d be so long before he saw his friend again.

Eskel turned his face away as Geralt put the lid back on the pot of salve, his features highlighted by the dancing flames of the fire behind Geralt.

“Here,” Geralt held the pot out to him. “You might as well have the rest.”

“No scars of your own this year?” Eskel asked.

Geralt shrugged. “Got a couple. Nothing that bothers me, though.”

Eskel snorted. “Lucky for some.”

“Hey, it’s a good look on you,” Geralt said. He knew why it bothered Eskel, he just didn’t think it _should_ have. “Makes you look dangerous.” He grinned.

“I _am_ dangerous,” Eskel responded, then hesitated. “You think?”

Geralt nodded. “I think,” he murmured, trying to reassure Eskel that it really was okay. Okay by him, anyway.

Eskel finally met Geralt’s eyes, holding his gaze for a few long moments.

Geralt surged forward, crushing his lips against Eskel’s and reaching out to hold the undamaged side of his face, not wanting to hurt him. His lips tasted of the salve, herbal and just slightly bitter, but Geralt didn’t care.

He’d missed this. He’d missed his friend, and he’d missed being close, and Eskel was wearing a big, obvious reminder that they were all breakable, that they lost at least one witcher every year, that every winter here might be their last.

Eskel responded after a moment, a soft, needy moan escaping him as he parted his lips. He shifted closer to Geralt, close enough to share his warmth.

The kiss slowed down to a leisurely pace, both men content to take pleasure in each other’s mouths, soft laughter passing between them and spilling over each other’s tongues. Geralt could feel the tension easing out of Eskel--out of his shoulders, at first, but then out of his jaw as he relaxed into the kiss, convinced that this was happening, and Geralt wanted it.

“Missed you,” Eskel murmured as they parted an inch to breathe, darting back in as soon as he’d filled his lungs.

Geralt made a happy sound in the back of his throat, the warmth of arousal spreading in his belly, leaving him wanting more. “Missed you too,” he confessed, whispering the words against Eskel’s lips.

Maybe they weren’t too old for this, after all.

“Wanna see those new scars?” Geralt asked the next time they broke off, and Eskel nodded, and then they were stumbling their way up to Geralt's bedroom, struggling to keep their hands off each other long enough to climb the stairs without falling.

Clothes fell to the floor efficiently, both men stealing glances at the other as they undressed, taking stock of their familiar bodies.

“You're getting thin,” Eskel scolded as Geralt climbed onto the bed, looking up at him with warmth in his eyes.

“Had a few hard months this year,” Geralt said, knowing it was true. He settled himself on top of Eskel’s hips, content to enjoy skin-to-skin contact for the moment. “You look good, though.”

“Except for the huge scar on my face,” Eskel said.

Geralt shrugged. “I like it,” he responded. “It works on you. Makes you look like a real witcher.”

Eskel laughed. “I don't know whether or not to take you seriously.”

Obviously, he wasn't going to come to terms with this _that_ easily.

Which was fine. Geralt had all winter to convince him that it didn't matter, and he planned to have fun doing it.

Instead of arguing, he leaned down to kiss Eskel again, taking both of their cocks in hand.

His hips rocked into his grip, the slide of the two of them together making the low flame of arousal in his gut flare up like the hearth fire downstairs, huge and crackling, hot enough to warm his bones after a cold day.

Geralt really _had_ missed this. It felt good to be with someone he knew he could trust, someone who wasn't vaguely--or completely--disgusted by what he was, someone who could match him, who he wasn't afraid of breaking.

Eskel chuckled under him, and Geralt’s heart soared at the sound. His efforts to cheer Eskel up were obviously working.

Geralt thumbed precome away from the head of his cock, spreading it along the length to slick the way between them. He buried his face in the crook of Eskel’s neck, breathing his scent in deeply.

The soft touch of Eskel’s fingers against his thigh made his whole chest tighten, the tenderness of the gesture overwhelming. He’d forgotten what this was like, how good it felt, and the ache of missing it sprung up in the pit of his stomach all over again.

He pushed the feeling aside, not willing to ruin the moment by dwelling on the fact that he couldn’t have this always, no matter how much he might have liked to.

Geralt’s toes curled as the friction between him and Eskel hit just the right spot, a rush of pleasure washing over him as his orgasm hit, knocking a broken grunt from his lungs as he spilled all over his hand and Eskel’s belly, feeling Eskel follow him over the edge a moment later, as though he’d been holding back until Geralt came.

Knowing Eskel, that was _exactly_ what he’d been doing.

Unable to resist, Geralt pressed another soft kiss to Eskel’s lips before rolling away, just far enough to breathe while still touching in a few places.

Beside him, Eskel chuckled again. That had to be a good sign.

“Yeah, that was good,” Geralt agreed, sleep already threatening to take him. He was warm, comfortable, and satisfied.

“I haven't, uh… since…” Eskel said, trailing off. He didn't sound distressed, though. Just a little embarrassed at the confession.

“Well, now you have,” Geralt said. “And tomorrow we’re hunting down a boar.”

“You didn't need to fuck me to convince me to go hunting with you,” Eskel responded. “Could've just asked.”

“I _wanted_ this,” Geralt said, even though Eskel was trying not to sound serious. “I wanna try having you inside me,” he confessed, the thought having been on his mind for a while now.

Eskel made a strangled sound and rolled over on top of Geralt, pinning him to the mattress and sucking on his tongue until his cock hardened, then fumbling for oil.

Enthusiasm and enhanced muscle control made things easy between them, and soon enough Geralt was on all fours on the bed, moaning eagerly as he felt the hot, thick head of Eskel’s cock pressed against him, so close to where he wanted it.

“You sure about this?” Eskel asked, and dammit, Geralt had never been more sure about _anything_ in his entire life. His thighs were trembling, and his belly ached with arousal, and he wanted Eskel _now._

He nodded, not trusting his voice, and broke into a low groan as Eskel breached him, all heat and pressure and just a little _too_ much, but perfect all the same, and then he was all the way inside Geralt’s body and oh _gods_ it was like he’d been made just for this, every one of Geralt’s senses suddenly narrowed down to how damned _good_ Eskel felt inside him.

A few slow, smooth strokes left Geralt panting harshly, pushing back for more, demanding harder, faster, _everything_.

He growled when Eskel hit something that made all his nerve endings fizzle at once, and pushed his hips back, demanding more.

Eskel only chuckled behind him. “You look good like this,” he murmured, curling his fingers around Geralt’s hip to hold him still, and in this position there wasn’t a whole lot Geralt could do about it.

He bit his lip and closed his eyes, letting his head hang between his shoulders. A gasp escaped him as he felt Eskel’s hand at his neck, brushing his hair aside and stroking along it with his thumb, firm but tender.

Geralt whimpered, need making his pride crumble as every stroke of Eskel’s cock hit that same spot inside him, over and over, until Geralt came in a blinding rush, moaning and trembling with the force of his orgasm.

He couldn’t ever remember feeling this wrung out by coming before, like he’d been hollowed out from the inside, wave after wave of pleasure cresting with every firm, sure thrust of Eskel’s hips until Geralt’s head was spinning, his legs weak.

Eskel didn’t let up for a second, rocking his hips slow and steady, moving the hand on Geralt’s hip to his oversensitive cock, Geralt hissing as he touched it.

“One more,” Eskel coaxed, and Geralt _really_ wanted to come again, and he knew he could. His thighs burned, and his balls ached, but his cock was already getting hard again in Eskel’s hand, eager for more.

“Feels good,” Geralt finally gritted out. It _did_ feel good, much better than Geralt had expected, and he knew he’d be begging for this again if he had to. He loved the way Eskel felt inside him, thick and heavy and impossibly hot. Geralt clenched and bucked and moaned his way through it, doing everything he could to give as good as he got, but he knew who was in charge here and he was shockingly fine with it.

If it meant he got fucked like this more often, he’d clean Eskel’s boots for him, too.

He came with a choked-off cry this time, his orgasm equal parts pleasure and pain as he spilled all over Eskel’s hand and his own stomach, groaning as he felt Eskel finish inside him, too, a warm rush that made him squirm and had his cock twitching again, despite the fact that he was completely, utterly spent.

He panted harshly, the room spinning around him as his whole body throbbed in time with his heartbeat, so fast he was starting to worry it might just up and give out on him.

As possible deaths went, this one seemed fine. At least he’d had a good time.

After a few more moments passed, and the world stilled around him, Geralt breathed a deep sigh and promised himself that they’d try this in every position he could think of until they were both sick to death of sex.

Which, for witchers, was unlikely to ever occur. And that was fine.

Geralt winced as Eskel pulled out of him, the sudden emptiness jarring, but he was glad they’d done this. He’d been curious about it a long time, but never found anyone he could trust enough to do it with before now.

There were a whole lot of other things he was curious about, too, and a long, cold winter ahead of them.

They didn't pretend they wanted to be apart this time, collapsing into a heap in each other's arms and snuggling close as they both caught their breath.

Geralt grabbed the edge of his blanket and pulled it over their cooling bodies, sighing happily as he closed his eyes.

“Really doesn't bother you?” Eskel asked. Geralt didn't need to wonder what he was talking about.

“Really doesn't bother me,” he confirmed. “And we're doing that again.”

Eskel laughed, pressing a soft kiss to Geralt's forehead.

“Few more times like that and I might even _believe_ you,” Eskel murmured, his voice thick with sleep. “Better than the salve.”

“We can do it as many times as it takes,” Geralt promised. He wasn't letting Eskel back onto the Path with any doubts about whether anyone would ever want him again. Doubts like that got people killed.

He didn't want Eskel dead. It would have been like losing a part of himself.

“Thanks, Geralt,” Eskel said. “Night.”

“Night, Eskel,” Geralt whispered, letting his head rest against the other man’s chest, and smiling at the thought of the long winter ahead.

 


End file.
